


all eyes on us

by trustingno1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hungry?" Sherlock murmurs, gazing out the taxi window as he cups John through his jeans.</p><p>"Sorry - what?" John chokes out, startled, pushing into - away from - the touch, can't quite decide, but Sherlock's palm follows him. </p><p>"Are you," Sherlock says, mildly, undoing John's button and fly without looking, "hungry?" </p><p>(Sherlock wants to test a theory).</p>
            </blockquote>





	all eyes on us

**Author's Note:**

> Kink meme [John/Sherlock public sex](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=130545414#t130545414) prompt fill
> 
> .

Sherlock has a theory, see.  
  
(Is it really a theory if he's _sure_ that he's right?)  
  
No mind; he has a theory. About John. Borne of years of proximity, and observations, and the fact that he knows John Watson better than he's ever known _anyone_. He has no plans to act on it, not just yet, but one afternoon - flying high after solving an eight (an _eight_ ) faster than even he could've predicted - in a fit of borderline jubilation that startles them both, he pulls John to him and kisses him, open-mouthed and a little bit too filthy for the middle of Broadway in broad daylight, but John doesn't resist, pushing up and into him and - well.  
  
Maybe it's time to test the theory.  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
He steps up behind John in the kitchen, under the guise of reaching for a mug.  
  
"Tea?" he murmurs, and he's not offering, and John knows it, laughing, ruefully, as he takes the mug from Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock grabs the bench, either side of John. John turns to face him, amused, still clutching the mug, and Sherlock swoops down to kiss him, slow and purposeful, and John's not an idiot.  
  
"Yeah?" John asks, a bit surprised, when Sherlock pulls away (and on the balance of probabilities, John _is_ more likely to initiate - coitus - than Sherlock).  
  
"Is that a 'no'?" Sherlock asks, lips brushing high along John's cheek and John carefully places the mug on the bench behind him.  
  
"God, no," he says, with a helpless smile that Sherlock leans down to kiss away.  
  
"Bedroom," he says, against John's mouth, and John lets himself be led, shucking his jumper, Sherlock's robe as they go.  
  
Sherlock tugs his pyjama bottoms off (John grins at him, fast and wicked; _no pants? you tart_ ) and sits up against the headboard, pillow behind his lower back, and John's smile fades a little (there's only one thing they really do in this position, and they don't do it often).  
  
Sherlock reaches for the lube in the bedside table and strokes himself to hardness, hand rolling over the head of his cock, as he watches John finish slowly undressing. He kneels on the side of the bed before straddling Sherlock, and, Christ, John's already panting a bit in anticipation.  
  
He reaches over Sherlock's shoulders and grabs onto the headboard, lowering himself onto Sherlock's cock, stomach muscles clenching and unclenching as he does, raising up a bit, sliding back and forth until he's settled flush against Sherlock's lap, and Sherlock squeezes his hips, affectionately, before falling into character (becoming what John wants, right now).  
  
"Get yourself off," he orders, hands falling away, and John's breath catches.  
  
He moves up and down, hesitantly at first, arching his back, trying to find the right angle, and Sherlock doesn't help him. He spreads his legs a little wider, not lifting up as much, just rocking back and forth, and his thighs'll be burning soon, but Sherlock knows he's grazing John's prostate in this position.  
  
Sherlock stares at him, impassive, and John flushes, closing his eyes for a moment, and Sherlock watches him fuck himself on his cock, desperate and leaking, and he's so _beautiful_ like this.  
  
He's all but bouncing in Sherlock's lap now, and Sherlock's hips twitch with the effort of not rocking up into him.  
  
(The data, he reminds himself. _The data_ ).  
  
"You're so desperate," he murmurs, aiming for detached, aloof, and John makes a strangled noise, watching Sherlock watch _him_. "Look at you."  
  
(One time, one time, John came like this, untouched, just writhing in Sherlock's lap.  
  
He still touches himself to the memory).  
  
"Please," John gasps, frantically grinding against him, now, "Sherlock-" he cries out, cutting himself off, as Sherlock wraps a slippery hand around him, wanking hard and fast and relentless until John's spilling over his hand and stomach.  
  
John collapses against him, a heavy weight against his chest, sucking in a few deep breaths until he can lift up a bit, so Sherlock can curl his legs up under him and fall forward, a hand at the back of John's neck. He's on top of John, between his thighs, finally able to push into him, and he fucks into him _hard_ , as John teeters on the brink of oversensitivity and -  
  
and so far, his theory is _sound_.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
"Hungry?" Sherlock murmurs, gazing out the taxi window as he cups John through his jeans.  
  
"Sorry - what?" John chokes out, startled, pushing into - away from - the touch, can't quite decide, but Sherlock's palm follows him.  
  
"Are you," Sherlock says, mildly, undoing John's button and fly without looking, "hungry?" He rubs John through his pants, thumbing at the head of his cock, and John spreads his legs, just a bit.  "John?" he prompts, turning to look at him, mock-innocent and curious.  
  
John's neck flushes. "Yeah, I could eat," he says, forced casual and a little challenging, and Sherlock _adores_ him.  
  
"Thai?" he suggests, hand still wandering, "That place off Edgeware?" and John shrugs his agreement. Phase two is going off without a _hitch_. "Sorry," Sherlock says, leaning forward to talk to the cabbie (and he's shamming apologetic quite well, judging by John's snort of laughter), "Change of plans. There's a little restaurant just off Edgeware Road," there's a deliberate pause, and a half-turn back to John. "Do you remember how to get there?" he asks, voice low, and John - so dependable, so _predictable_ \- nods. Sherlock faces forward again. "John can give you directions," he says, and the cabbie grunts.  
  
Sherlock settles back into his seat, unnatural smile disappearing immediately, and John laughs again, until Sherlock strokes him, root to tip, and he sucks a noisy breath in through his nose. He touches John lightly, through his pants, almost idly, fascinated at how quickly he's hardening under his fingers.  
  
Foregoing subtlety completely, he lifts his hand to his mouth and licks his palm, wetly, before slipping his hand beneath the waistband of John's pants.  
  
John sets his jaw and stares forward as Sherlock strokes him the way he likes it, sliding his foreskin back and forth, rubbing at his fraenulum with his thumb and John's hips are rocking, just little twitches, pushing up into his grip.  
  
"We're close," Sherlock says, quietly, and John turns to blink at him, uncomprehendingly. "Directions," he supplies, "Give the cabbie directions."  
  
His hand doesn't stop moving, and John's gaze darkens, and he's leaking into Sherlock's grip.  
  
He clears his throat. "You'll want to take Old Marylebone, mate," he says, voice admirably even, and the cabbie knocks on the indicator.  
  
The radio's playing softly, but it's not enough to completely drown out the slap of Sherlock's hand and John _knows_ it. Sherlock touches his lips to the shell of his ear. "Do you think he can hear that?" he breathes, "Do you think he _knows_?" he does his best to sound scandalised, a little appalled, and John's actually trembling a little.  
  
 "And then straight through the next lights, I think," John says, a bit louder, this time, less evenly, and Sherlock moves his hand faster.  
  
John drops his chin to his chest for a moment and just fucks into his grip, quickly, _one-two-three_ , before biting his lip and glancing out the windscreen again and he's so _close_.  
  
Sherlock fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket with his right hand, and John's laughing a little, breathy and incredulous and he grabs Sherlock's thigh, fingertips digging in _hard_ and-  
  
"Somewhere around here?" the cabbie asks, catching John's gaze in the rearview mirror, and John's coming, coming in the handkerchief, blinking back at the cabbie, jaw set, and he's so _good_ and _perfect_ that Sherlock helps him out.  
  
"Next left," he says, sounding bored, and John slumps in his seat for a moment, head lolling against the headrest.  
  
Phase two? _Definitely_ a success.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
"Can you have a look at the autopsy report?" Sherlock asks, just absently enough not to seem calculated, and John sighs and agrees, holding out a hand for it.  
  
"What am I looking _for_?" he asks, patiently, spearing a meatball, and Sherlock finally glances up at him.  
  
"Oh, nothing," he says, and John's eyebrows rise. "But the pictures alone should ensure the wait staff give us a wide berth. Don't you think?"  
  
"If they don't get us thrown out," John mutters, before, "Wait - why-" and before he can finish the question, Sherlock's socked foot is pushing up and between his thighs and John licks his bottom lip, staring at Sherlock across the table. "Are you-"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock says, simply. "Keep eating."  
  
John studies his fork for a moment, almost blankly, before lifting it to his mouth, and Sherlock curls his toes around him.  
  
"This is - crazy," he breathes, and Sherlock props his chin up in one hand, just watching him (it's the contrast; him, clear-eyed and seemingly bored, and John, trying not to rut against his foot in the middle of a restaurant that's turning John on right now).  
  
He flushes under Sherlock's gaze, like he knows what Sherlock's thinking, and it's _delightful_.  
  
"Yet, you're not stopping it," Sherlock observes, and John grips the edge of the table for a moment.  
  
Sherlock pushes the ball of his foot against John's crotch, rubbing in small circles - not enough to get him off, he knows, but this is about the _thrill_ of it.  
  
"Christ," John mutters, and he drops a hand into his lap under the guise of adjusting his serviette, but he squeezes himself through his trousers and Sherlock smiles at him, very slightly.  
  
"Dessert?" he asks, mildly, and he can _see_ it all so clearly; in a minute, he'll signal for their waiter and ask for the dessert menu, and he'll take his time, deliberating, pausing to ask John's opinion and John, the eyes of the waiter and Sherlock on him will answer, even as Sherlock turns his foot a bit and runs his arch along John's length and John will grit his teeth, his poker face charmingly awful tonight, and Sherlock will love him a little more for it.  
  
  
  
*  
  
One last phase; one that probably isn't strictly necessary. The results are fairly conclusive. But, well. The scientific method and all.  
  
  
*  
  
He orders the prostate stimulator online using John's laptop, works it slowly into John, naked and flushed and panting John, his legs spreading wider instinctively when Sherlock curls his fingers around the plastic base and changes the angle, watching John's face closely until-  
  
he lets go and lunges for the bedside table, grabbing for his phone.  
  
"Greg?" John asks, staring at the ceiling, and Sherlock hums, distractedly. "Now?" John asks, and it's not petulant or resigned (just a little disappointed).  
  
Sherlock tears his eyes away from the phone. "It's a locked room murder, John," he says, breathlessly, "They're the best _kind_."  
  
John smiles, helplessly, propping himself up on his elbows. "To be continued?" he asks, and Sherlock feigns confusion, lacing up his shoes.  
  
"Come on," he says, with the right touch of distraction, tossing John's jeans at him and John laughs, incredulously, reaching down and between his legs to ease the toy out of him, and Sherlock grabs his wrist. "Don't," he says, eyes searching John's, and John flushes, immediately (with humiliation and _want_ ), and he won't ask for this, but Sherlock can try to give it to him.  
  
John pushes up and off the bed, carefully, leaning down slowly to tug on his plain cotton pants, and Sherlock throws open the bedroom door.  
  
"Come _on_ , John," he says, again.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
John glances at him when he heads for the Tube instead of flagging a taxi, but says nothing, following Sherlock down to the platform.  
  
He boards the first train that stops - doesn't know where it's going and he doesn't _care_ \- and tugs John into the middle of the car (there aren't many seats left, but that's _perfect_ , that's exactly what he needs).  
  
He sits, knees spread a little, and urges John down and into his lap (and it's only a little uncomfortable in its unnaturalness; it's overtly demonstrative, in a way they naturally aren't, but John doesn't protest).  
  
His thigh nudges the toy in John, and John shifts a little, as Sherlock wraps his arms loosely around his waist, chin resting on John's shoulder.  
  
"Where are we going?" John murmurs, turning his head to the side, and Sherlock drags his lips along the line of John's jaw.  
  
"Nowhere," he admits, just as quietly, and John takes a moment to process, as Sherlock, very deliberately, pushes his thigh up. The man on their left opens up his newspaper.  
  
"The case?" He sounds like he knows, though, and he kisses a spot just below John's ear. Rocks his leg up again.  
  
"No case," he whispers against John's neck. He can hear the tinny music in the earbuds of the woman on their other side.  
  
"So we're riding the Tube to-" John begins.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock says, and John sucks in a breath through his teeth. Shifts against Sherlock's thigh, almost helplessly. Sherlock makes a happy noise of encouragement, and John's head falls forward for a moment.  
  
Sherlock touches his waist, his thighs (nothing - indiscreet) as he waits. Hesitantly, John rocks against him again, and again, just small flexes of his hips, and Sherlock pushes the beginnings of his erection up against John's arse.  
  
Sherlock meets the gaze of the man directly opposite them, keeps his expression bland, disinterested.  
  
John arches his back, suddenly. "Careful," Sherlock murmurs, into the back of his neck, "or everyone'll know what you're doing." John's trembling against him, and Sherlock nips at his earlobe. "Or maybe that's the attraction," he pretends to ponder.  
  
"Shut up," John replies, without heat.  
  
"What are the chances that no-one here recognizes us?" Sherlock continues, "That not _one person_ can see John Watson humping my leg on the _Tube_ ," and John rocks against him, faster, still just barely moving, but if anyone was looking, if anyone noticed John grinding down against him, the rhythmic push of his hips would give them away in a _heartbeat_.  
  
Sherlock laces his fingers together, in John's lap, and he can _feel_ John, through their clothes.  
  
He lets his teeth graze John's neck. "Do it," he says.  
  
"Sherlock," John says, and his breathing's faster, and Sherlock pushes his leg up again, tensing the muscles in his thigh and John gives in, rutting against the inside of Sherlock's forearm, through the layers, helpless and desperate and so, terribly _base_.  
  
(He won't bring John off here, in the middle of the car (there are _limits_ , after all), but he'll take him back to Baker Street, take him home, and they'll have a rather frantic bout of shagging  and - _and_ \- his theory will have been proved, fairly conclusively. At some point, John will sit him down and add this to his list of frightfully dull rules (no giggling at crime scenes; no masturbating on public transport) - but. Well.  
  
Not too bad an evening, really).  
  
  


 

 

 


End file.
